'That is well,' he cried, 'I knew we could safely rely upon your
good sense. Kiss me, Julia--that is well! Come, Estella--we must
not keep the horses waiting.'

With a laugh and a nod he went towards the door. 'Blown over, my
dear Concha,' he said over his shoulder.

A few minutes later the priest walked down the avenue of walnut
trees alone. The bell was ringing for vespers, but the Padre was an
autocratic shepherd and did not hurry towards his flock. The sun
had set, and in the hollows of the distant mountains the shades of
night already lay like a blue veil.

The priest walked on and presently reached the high road. A single
figure was upon it--the figure of a man sitting in the shadow of an
ilex tree half a mile up the road towards Bobadilla. The man
crouched low against a heap of stones and had the air of a wanderer.
His face was concealed in the folds of his cloak.

'Blown over,' muttered the Padre as he turned his back upon
Bobadilla and went on towards his church. 'Blown over, of course;
but what is Concepcion Vara doing in the neighbourhood of Ronda to-
night?'



CHAPTER XII. ON THE TOLEDO ROAD.